


Last Dances

by ohargos



Category: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohargos/pseuds/ohargos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter dreams of death and life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Dances

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the brilliant [lumikello](http://lumikello.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Written for Sophia Prester

 

 

When Hunter is dying, (death is a companion of hers, up until the moment it turns around, looks her in the eye and becomes a stranger) she begins to dream.

For a moment there's darkness, and then dreams fill it like liquid, and she doesn't know if she's breathing anymore.

_High above the city, above London Above, Richard dreams the same dreams, a little later. He thinks it's the Beast that haunts his dreams, but he is not quite right. It is not the Beast of London. These are dreams of the other beasts who died by the knife he now owns, beasts who died by Hunter's hand._

The stench of the Beast fills her nostrils ( _the sense of smell is the last one to disappear_ ), its mass is crushing her legs, and she dreams of red red blood, dreams of a dance that is as old as time, dreams of the dizzying rush of life in her veins.

Then she dreams no more.

\--

Hunter can hear the river right behind the wall of the station of Cité. She licks her lips and her heart is pounding over the idea of what swims in these waters. She thinks of glittering scales, the filth buried between them, thinks of teeth like curved daggers, moonstone eyes as ghost lanterns in the murky water. She thinks of the things lost and thrown away over centuries, still rotting in its belly, corpses and plastic bags, baby carriages and cigarette stumps. She dreams the gargouille is calling her name, its voice like whale song.

She is so perfectly focused on the Beast of Paris that she doesn't see the woman who appears from the shadows of the station and blocks her way.

"Good evening," the woman says, and her white cloaks billow around her.

Hunter doesn't miss a beat, there is no moment of hesitation in between, "Good evening, lady." Hunter's fearlessness is evident in her every gesture. The woman smiles at this, inclining her head slightly.

"I am one of the Dames Blanches," she says, and her eyes flicker, and with that flicker, she loses the innocence her gentle face and immaculate white clothes speak of. "And I seek for your assistance."

A heavy breath escapes Hunter's lips, a flash of fire through her veins, for the gargouille is still right there, on the other side of the wall, hiding in the depths of Seine, waiting, and she doesn't have time for neither curses nor favours.

"I am sorry," she says firmly. "There is a quest I must complete first."

The White Lady shakes her head, and it seems she is genuinely apologetic. Almost. "I'm afraid you cannot."

Hunter can see shadows moving around them, small creatures coming closer and they hiss and they growl and they will fight if they're asked to, die for their Lady. Hunter thinks it's a pity, but she will do what she must.

"I think Lady Serpentine would agree," the white woman says lightly, and doesn't look at Hunter, watches the shadows of the station. "And I will pay well. It is not the easiest thing to kill a water dragon as huge as the one in Seine. The way you slew the Beast of Gévaudan was impressive, certainly, but centuries must take their toll on you as well. "

"You know Lady Serpentine?" Hunter asks, and the deal is already done.

Later on, Hunter is making her way back to the river from Louvre's Floating Market, ("This blood," the White Lady said, handing her a vial so dusty you couldn't tell the colour of the contents at all, "will bring you any beast you wish, for it holds the promise of more life than even you have ever known, Hunter." The seller nodded eagerly, and his fox tail licked the floor.) and she passes a couple from Paris d'En Haut (she is wrong about that - they speak English but she doesn't pause to listen). The woman is walking ahead, head held up high, and the man looks somewhat lost. There is a dark creature (a bête noire, what else) walking on the man's heels, and without thinking Hunter takes her spear, strikes, and the man pays no attention to the creature turning into smoke at his feet, hurrying after the woman who rolls her eyes at his slowness.

She doesn't recognise him the next time they see, for she barely sees him this once with the dreams of the dragon that she will call to the dance of life, the dance of death, filling her head.

She finally emerges from the catacombs, the pale ghost hands still brushing against her caramel skin, walks to the shore and carefully opens the vial. The scent of blood drugs the Beast, and it follows her, tamed, as if it were a snake and she the snake charmer with her soundless flute.

Once the glow of its eyes has dimmed and there is no more life to be drained, Hunter burns the remains and lets the river take them back.

\--

Most of the man-made miracles of Esfahan are now underground, and compared to them, the wonders left above are simple things. In the wide halls beneath the city, the air is cool and carries a soft scent of jasmine. Hunter finds that the fever which rises in her whenever she is close to a beast is faint here, something of a memory of the thing, rather than the thing itself.

She finds a market square, filled with small stands that remind her of silk tents. She's always thought of Floating Markets as colourful nightmares, but the way they make trade here reminds her of a dream before waking. Colours seem softer, and bargains are made excitedly but no one shouts or screams. She ends up in the midst of a flock of peris, winged creatures whose eyes are sad and whose clothes feel like a wind as they float past her. They shone above all once, but now there is only a soft glow left. They are moons now, not suns. One of the peris smiles to her, a melancholic smile. While she appears unaffected, Hunter wonders if they have a spell of some kind, something to make her mind grow dim.

The woman who tells her the location of the palace has a soft voice, silvery eyes and horns curling on her temples. Hunter gives her a glass flower in return and walks away light-headed.

Hunter walks through the shroud of spider web into the forgotten palace, and the bird ( _the beast_ ) is there, hovering upon a feline carcass. The old ornaments have flaked off the walls, and become dust. It catches in the ray of light from the skylight.

Hunter bows her head, "I have come here to slay you."

The huma, the Beast of Esfahan, looks her in the eye, and she believes it accepts their shared fate.

"Please share this dance with me," Hunter breathes.

Slowly, the bird spreads its glimmering wings, and soars effortlessly. It does not usually fight, but for her it is willing to make an exception.

Hunter hasn't fought so beautifully ever before, and she will not, ever again. Afterwards, though, there is only little she recalls of the fight itself.

The bird knows death better than she, through both others and itself. There is a moment when she thinks this is her turn; that the bird will devour her. That is not a horrible thought. But she is Hunter.

The bird dies before its body hits the floor. Hunter exhales deeply, and feels the tingling in her bloodstream, the way life flows into her.

"Wake up," she whispers to the dead bird before she leaves. Its body feels very warm; soon it will burst into flames and burn into ashes.

\--

The boy has been leading her for a day and a night now. He has haunting eyes and there is an eerie glow to him, and it's possible he has died decades ago. She thinks he is a will-o'-the-wisp, but there is no way he can lead her astray; that is where she wants to go. That is where the Beast of Oulu awaits.

She isn't certain if they are beneath the city anymore. Maanalainen Oulu began with small wooden shacks and narrow stone corridors, remains of rails and one ghost train where there was apparently a market or something of the sort, but which she was unable to board. The boy came out of the shadows, and she touched her knife, the familiar weight of it resting against her side. The boy merely gave a small smile, asked if he could help. He was the first person who spoke to her; she hadn't seen many people and the ones she had seen had all been startled by her fierce light. The boy was not.

It seems they are descending slowly, but Hunter cannot tell if they are still underground. There are old trees all around, reaching towards the ceiling ( _the sky?_ ) and there is a thin layer of frost on the ground, and her breath steams (the child's does not). It's so dark that she has to follow his faint glow, but she still cannot tell if they're beneath the earth or not.

Next time, she swears, she will hunt where the sun is scorching and causes her to see mirages.

There is a skull of a bear on a tree, its hollow eye sockets staring at her, unseeing. Hunter stops. She tightens her grip on the spear, and the metal of the knife is freezing against her fingertips. She can hear the Beast's heavy paws in the distance, and she longs for the hunt to begin, the dance.

"That is no threat," says the boy when he sees the fire flickering in her eyes. "When a bear is killed, the people here hold a feast. They give their purest, most innocent child for the bear's bride and hold a wedding for the bear and the child. Afterwards, they place the bear's bones where it breathes its last breath, so that it may be reborn. It returns if they have treated it well."

Hunter doesn't say anything.

And they walk onwards in the dark, and eventually come across a pile of bones. They watch as a glowing bear spirit rises slowly, its eyes sleepy as if it's waking from hibernation.

Then the darkness of the forest becomes complete all of a sudden, and when Hunter can see again, the boy is nowhere to be found. Her body tingles with anticipation. There is only dark, underground as well as outside, for these are the days when the sun never rises. Hunter stands in the dark and the cold, fearless, lets the Beast come to her.

It comes.

It is huge like night and its breath is hot enough to melt the frost on her perfectly curved eyebrows, her dark lashes. It stinks of death. Its paws are heavy on the frosty ground. She doesn't ask for its name ( _Surma_ , a violent death) and doesn't look to see if its tail is scaled. Avoiding its eyes, (it's said their look will turn you into stone) Hunter gives a light bow.

She flies towards the Beast, then, gripping her spear. It growls like thunder, and night envelopes them.

Afterwards, she cuts the meat from the bones meticulously. She piles the bones where life left the beast and entered her.

When the translucent spirit awakens, she is already far away.

\--

The first night in Kenema, Hunter dreams of the Beast. At first there is the sound of a man dying excruciatingly slowly, somewhere near. The rain makes it hard to see and the wet leaves of the trees slap her face. The smell of rotting fruits and wilting flowers is nauseating, and she cannot focus, cannot find her knife. There is a male voice, a nervous whisper, "I've got it now. I did it." It's not enough. She needs to feel the weight of her weapon in her hand. They belong together, because otherwise she cannot live.

The Beast comes closer through the thick forest, and sweat runs down her face and back, and she can already taste the blood in her mouth, stronger than ever before. She looks at her empty hands and knows she must fight.

She awakens to the song-like conversation of a group of children. Their skin is golden and they have small wings. She breathes out a sigh of relief. There are no huge plants here, no rain, and the scent floating in the air is slightly metallic, accompanied by the bitter smell of earth. She closes her eyes to listen to the children's ringing voices. Canaries, she thinks. They are canaries.

She is meaning to ask for directions to the market place, but when she walks in the mine for a while, she realises it's all around. It all reminds her of tropical fishes; the bright colours of the people's clothes, the train that floats through the dark like a huge bioluminescent fish.

The man she speaks to has hooves and there is a boy with parrot wings sitting on his shoulder, playing with the old coins tied to his hair. He laughs until she mentions the name of Kikiyaon. It is soon clear that no one will give her directions, let alone lead her there.

But that is alright, for she is Hunter.

She walks onwards until the tunnels grow silent and the signs of life scarce. She almost stumbles over the body of a curled-up canary child on the ground. She kneels down next to him for a moment. He has died a long time ago and all his feathers have become ash grey.

Slowly the air grows heavy and sweet. It's so hot that her sweat drips down her face and stings in her eyes. She thinks she sees something ahead, a shadow approaching. There is no one there.

She clutches her spear and her other hand seeks the knife.

It is nowhere to be found.

Hunter awakens in the dark of the diamond mine.

Next day she slays the Beast of Kenema, and never dreams of it again.

\--

_And now I make amends._

The very moment she set her foot on the soil of London, she knew she'd leave again, soon.

_I did a very bad thing._

But she hungers for life, and for light so bright it will burn through her retinas.

They have made her a legend here, and it's natural and it's all wrong.

The point in being a hunter is that you live only in those short moments when you are inhaling someone else's life. Hunters live and die, they aren't supposed to linger on, be it in ink or in flesh.

She remembers the night of the bridge, whispers of death in her ears.

She was never afraid.

_I did a very bad thing._

It's not about being a saviour, not at all. (Isn't it?)

There is a boy and she takes his life in her hands, without him asking.

There is a girl and she asks her to take her life, care for it.

There is the Beast. The intoxicating music of its heartbeat, the dance that has not quite begun.

She chooses the Beast. Chooses the rush of life that will fill her head like wine from Atlantis.

She chooses her death. She wants (them all) to live.

It's a silly old city, and in an odd way, one of her favourites.

She didn't think she'd die here. The smell of the Beast fills her world. She dreams and they die, she and the Beast, they die together.

_Do you keep your life hidden?_

No.

Can't you see?

It's right here in my hands.

Can you see how my heart is pounding?

Isn't it?

\--

fin

 

 

 


End file.
